


Day Three

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Exes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The HP Lovecraft story referenced here is <i><a href="http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/hd.asp">The Haunter of the Dark</a></i>, dedicated to Robert Bloch. Bloch had written an earlier story, dedicated to Lovecraft, called "The Shambler from the Stars"; 'Haunter" was Lovecraft's respose. Bloch later wrote a third story "The Shadow from the Steeple"; I can't find either of the Bloch pieces online, or I'd share links here.</p>
<p>The movie is <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Them!">Them!</a></i> and if you haven't seen it, <i>why</i> are you wasting time reading my fic instead of darting off to find it?! Go! Go! This fic will still be here when you get back!</p></blockquote>





	Day Three

Castiel takes a shower, dresses, remakes the bed, tosses the covers of Dean’s comforter and cushions into the laundry, does the same with the sheets from the guest room, makes himself a cup of tea, and goes through the first few tasks on his to do list fuelled by determination _not_ to think about yesterday afternoon or last night or -- well, to think about as little as humanly possible.

It is noontime before he finds himself in the kitchen, looking aimlessly in the fridge for something that is not there, and realises that his jaw aches from clenching his teeth. 

He closes the refrigerator door and turns to the sink, beginning the mechanical process of washing the few dishes that are there. He watches his hands carefully, as if there were a chance he might have forgotten how to squirt soap on a sponge.

The rain clouds have almost cleared away; there is still a thick grey haze but the sun is nearly breaking through. 

_This is ridiculous,_ he lectures himself, carefully scratching a bit of dried yogurt off the inside of a bowl. _You have known the man for -- what? a total of forty-eight hours? And after last night -- God, he was absolutely entitled to run like hell. Get a magazine if you wish for fodder to jerk off to. Real people should not be used like that._

* * *

When the doorbell buzzes, he is trying to brush Nellie. He keeps catching at snarls in her fur and pressing the brush down too heavily, not really paying attention to what he is doing. Sensing his mood, the cat is unwilling, batting at the brush with her hind feet and nearly catching him with her claws.

He drops the brush onto the couch and pushes himself to his feet. A new manuscript already -- his editor had not been kidding when she said there would be a rush in early summer. Well, it will be something to do.

He does not bother to open the door from the panel on his wall; he hates making the postman walk up three flights with a heavy package. Instead, he props the door open with a shoe and jogs down the stairs. 

By the time he reaches the bottom, he is slightly out of breath and gloomily making plans to take up running again. He takes the last two steps at a jump, turns towards the door, and stops.

Dean taps on the glass of the door and grins at him. ‘Hey. No key. Sorry.’

Castiel stares at him, half-convinced that he has fallen asleep on his couch and is dreaming. Surreptitiously, he stubs his toe against the bottom step and winces; no, definitely not dreaming. 

‘Y’gonna let me in?’ Dean’s smile is fading and Castiel hurries towards the door before it can disappear entirely.

‘I...thought you had left,’ he says as he pulls the heavy door open.

Dean steps in. ‘Went to check on the car.’

‘How is it?’ Castiel lets the door shut and turns towards Dean, now standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Dean shrugs and grimaces. ‘Pretty bad. Manuel, the guy who runs the shop -- he’s gonna let me do some of the work myself, cut me a deal on the shop time and tools but--’

‘It will still be expensive.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can he get the...the parts you need?’

Dean nods. ‘Yeah. But the first won’t be here for a couple days, though.’ He hesitates and studies Castiel for a minute. ‘Hey, look, you must’ve been happy as hell when I was gone this morning.’ He takes a step back towards the door, reaching for the knob. ‘’m sorry I-- look, I’ll just--’

‘Don’t you dare!’ The words blurt out before Castiel can stop them and he swallows hard.

‘What?’ Dean stops where he is, eyebrows high.

‘I...was...not expecting you to be gone this morning.’

‘Sorry. Not much of a morning cuddler.’ Dean grins but the expression does not reach his eyes and he doesn’t move his hand off the doorknob. He shifts position, sliding his free hand into his jeans pocket. 

Castiel can feel the flush, volcanic, hot, and, he is sure, tomato red, climbing his cheeks. ‘That is not what I meant.’

For a minute, Dean stays as he is, something hard and intractable fairly radiating from him. Then -- he sighs and rubs at his eyes and seems to relax again. ‘Yeah, I know. Look, I... I’m sorry. About last night. Okay? I didn’t...I... I was tired and I wasn’t... I shouldn’t’ve done it. I’m sorry.’

Hearing Dean apologise for Castiel’s own weakness is like having lemon juice rubbed into a cut with no way to rinse it clean. Castiel bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. ‘It is not...It... Did you sleep well?’

Dean blinks. ‘Uh...yeah. Yeah, I did.’

‘Good. Then it is not important. I was...simply surprised.’ Castiel can taste the sweet tang of blood on his tongue and what really surprises him is how easy it still is to lie. 

* * *

Dean dozes on the couch for the rest of the afternoon and Castiel pretends to work, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his laptop screen even if he finds he has occasionally been staring at the Google search box for upwards of five minutes at a time.

His usual mid-afternoon email break is an unpleasant surprise.

‘Shit.’ 

‘Wha...?’ Behind him, Dean snorts, coughs, and he hears the rustle of cloth as Dean sits up. ‘What’s wrong?’

Castiel grits his teeth, staring at the email. ‘Nothing. I...was just... _fuck.’_ He drops his head in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. ‘Checking my email. It is nothing.’

‘Uh -- doesn’t sound like nothing, Cas. Is there... Can I do anything?’ Dean sounds uncharacteristically tentative.

‘It...’ Castiel drops his hands and looks at the email again. The words are still the same and he closes his eyes again. ‘My...ex...wants something.’

‘Oh.’ Dean is silent for a minute, then asks, ‘What?’

Castiel sighs and looks at the email again. ‘Money.’

‘Money?’ Dean starts to say something, then cuts himself off and Castiel turns around. Dean is visibly biting his lips together.

‘You can ask.’ It would take some effort to make this day much worse.

‘Uh...no-one really gets...blackmailed, do they?’ 

Dean does not seem offended when Castiel bursts out laughing, he only grins and waits for Castiel to calm down.

‘No, no...’ Castiel wipes his eyes and sniffs, leaning back in his chair. ‘He maintains I owe him money. From when we were together. He is always nearly penniless.’ He shrugs. ‘It is...easier to give it to him.’

‘What the hell!’ Dean sits up.

‘What?’ Castiel blinks, taken aback by the reaction. It seems a fairly simple transaction to him: Zach shows up, he gives Zach money, Zach goes away again.

‘How often does he pull this on you?’

‘Once --’ Castiel shifts position uncomfortably. Dean is watching him closely and he does not like lying. ‘Three or four times a year.’

‘A _year?_ Jesus -- tell him to get lost!’

Castiel shrugs uneasily. He cannot honestly say he has not thought the same thing but... ‘I cannot. He... he...’

‘You still like him?’

‘No!’ Castiel looks up and finds Dean’s eyes steady on his face, the younger man’s face unreadable. ‘No, I do not. I would be happy never to see him again.’

‘So...you pay him to go away?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Jesus, Cas.’

Castiel scowls at his hands. He has thought before that telling Zach to jump in the Charles would be a refreshing alternative to shelling out several hundred dollars every few months, but-- ‘It is easier this way.’

‘If you say so.’ Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘You ...uh...want me to disappear for awhile?’

‘No.’ Castiel glances back at the email and sighs again. ‘No, it is.... I do not wish you to be inconvenienced.’

‘Cas, _I’m_ the one squatting on _your_ couch. I think you get to call what’s inconvenient!’

‘You do not have to go anywhere,’ Castiel says with sudden decision. 

He would be lying if he said it had not crossed his mind to ask Dean to play his boyfriend for the next day or so. As high school an idea as it was, it might be strangely satisfying to present Zach with the kind of relationship he knew Zach thought Castiel was incapable of.

As soon as the idea comes to him, the horrific consequences start ramifying like the arms of a snowflake. He would have to be far drunker than he has ever been to suggest something like that and believe it would have the slightest hope of ending well.

Despite that, the prospect of having someone else around -- someone who at least _appears_ to be relaxed as Dean is capable of looking although Castiel is not wholly blind to the fact that _some_ of that is a front -- is appealing. It is not as if Zach is prone to violence -- he has never been that -- but Castiel hates having him in the apartment. Zach’s periodic visits always leave him with a nearly frantic urge to clean _everything_ in sight and Nellie has often put up with several days of maniacal dusting and shifting and vacuuming with remarkable patience.

‘Okay. Hey, is it your break time yet? Want to watch another movie?’

* * *

The knock on the door comes later that evening and Castiel jerks as if the baking dish he is washing had become somehow electrified. He relaxes after another second, sighs, dries his hands.

Despite Dean’s earlier protestations, the younger man had vanished somewhere late in the afternoon -- this time taking the spare key. 

Gritting his teeth, Castiel drops the damp towel over the back of a chair and goes to the door. He hits the button by the door this time; Zach can damn well walk up three flights of stairs on his own. 

* * *

By the time Cas hears what must be Dean’s key in the lock, he is ready to welcome any interruption. He stands up as Dean comes into the room. ‘Dean -- how was your evening?’

‘Good -- great. Found a cheap place to eat a couple of streets over--’ Dean glances over Zach, then warms noticeably as his gaze returns to Castiel. 

Castiel thinks he will never be so grateful to see torn jeans and a worn leather jacket again in his life. 

Dean holds up a small brown paper bag. ‘Grabbed you some dessert for later.’

Castiel blinks and takes the bag when Dean holds it out. ‘Thank you.’

‘Aren’t you gonna introduce me?’ Zach asks from behind Castiel.

Castiel turns back, still holding the bag. ‘Zach, this is Dean. He’s...my houseguest for a few days.’

Zach holds out a hand which Dean grasps for precisely as long as politeness requires. ‘I don’t remember meeting you before.’

‘Don’t remember meeting you either,’ Dean replies equably, shrugging off his jacket and turning back to the hall. When he disappears Zach turns a quizzical expression to Castiel.

‘He’s not your usual type.’

Castiel grits his teeth harder. ‘He is staying here while his car is repaired.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ 

Dean leans in the doorway, hands in his pockets. ‘So what do you do, Zach?’

‘Me?’ Zach leans back slightly, dropping his hands from the back of the chair he is straddling like a stool. He has mastered the art of folding his lanky body into artistic poses and this is no exception; he looks like someone posing for an advertisement for expensive liquor -- something dark bronze to match his coloring. One eyebrow is up and Castiel would recognize the expression on his face from a hundred yards. 

Castiel has mentally labelled it the ‘coolly charming’ look and he has seen women and men go down before it like wheat. He remembers being fifteen himself and thinking that Zach looked so adult like that, knowing and clever and cool and all the things Castiel himself was so fundamentally _not._

‘Isn’t that how the conversation goes?’ Dean is not smiling and Castiel would very much like to kiss him.

‘I’m a writer; I do mostly freelance stuff.’ 

Castiel is absolutely positive Dean can see the check lying on the kitchen table and he knows that his handwriting is clear enough to be read upside down. ‘Does this need to go in the refrigerator?’

Dean glances at the bag Castiel is still holding. ‘Couldn’t hurt.’ As Castiel goes over to the fridge, Dean asks, ‘You like chocolate, right?’

‘Oh, you must be a _recent_ houseguest.’ Zach laughs. ‘Castiel loves chocolate. Have a bar in the room and he’ll find it in five minutes or less.’

‘Looks like I picked the right thing, then.’ Dean’s voice could be a model for deadpan and Castiel keeps his head in the fridge for a moment or two longer than he strictly needs to, unsure whether he’s about to start screaming or laughing hysterically. 

‘And what about you? Just a ...rambling houseguest?’ Zach’s tone is a wealth of innuendo.

‘His car broke down outside the publisher’s.’ Castiel shuts the fridge door with a little more force than is strictly necessary and Zach glances back at him.

‘Your style really _has_ changed, Castiel.’ Zach turns back to Dean. ‘So what do you do when you’re not...being Castiel’s houseguest?’

‘Just about anything. I was working with my dad but he...died recently, so I’m lookin’ for work at the minute.’

‘Really.’ 

‘Zach, was there something else you wanted?’ Castiel interrupts before either man can say anything else. 

‘Well, I was kinda thinking of asking you out to dinner sometime this week but...’ Zach’s gaze travels over Dean thoughtfully and then returns to Castiel. ‘Looks like you’re booked up.’

‘What about -- what’s his name -- Daniel, last time, wasn’t it?’

Zach grimaces, distorting his even features into something Castiel thinks more accurately reflects his personality. ‘He...he didn’t quite fit my kinks, if you know what I mean.’

‘I know.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see the quick flick of Dean’s eyes between them and he knows what the other man must be thinking. This is neither the time nor the place to clarify, though. ‘In any case, I am sure there is someone waiting for you. Somewhere.’

Shrugging, Zach swings his leg over the back of the chair and stands up. ‘Y’know, I miss you sometimes, Castiel.’

Castiel bites the sore place in his mouth as hard as he can. This is one of Zach’s favorite tricks, only ever deployed in front of an audience: the regretful ex, the one who is not sure that ending the relationship was the right thing to do, the one who would like to talk about trying again. He had fallen for it twice and the only use he can think of for time travel would be to go back in time and stop himself from doing that.

He can think of nothing to say. There is no comeback to this and he does not notice Dean stepping carefully around Zach until a shoulder nudges Cas companionably. ‘Hey, can I get to the sink?’

There is nothing special in the statement, or in Dean’s voice, but something between the slight physical touch and the absolutely everyday-ness of the words serves to wake Castiel up.

‘Hey, _house_ guest--’

And Zach’s “irritated possessive boyfriend” tone does the rest.

‘I am sorry, Dean -- here.’ Castiel hands Dean a clean glass from the drainer and crosses to the table, picking up the check and holding it to Zach. ‘I believe this is what you came for.’

* * *

Castiel does not remember getting back to the living room after he shuts the door behind Zach. He does not remember removing Nellie from his -- and her -- favorite chair. He does not remember sitting down and he does not remember dropping his head in his hands.

He does remember the creeping feeling of nausea. He does remember the steady throb of the headache. He does remember the sour taste in his mouth but those are easy to remember because they are ongoing.

‘Hey.’ There’s a faint _thunk_ and the sound of Dean sitting on the couch opposite.

‘Dean, I am sorry I--’ Castiel raises his head, trying to form the politest possible way of saying he doubts he can get through more than a sentence or two of conversation tonight. But Dean is holding out a glass to him and the _thunk_ ing noise was an unopened bottle of whiskey.

‘You said you liked to earn your hangovers.’ Dean nods at the bottle. ‘This shouldn’t be hard to work with.’

‘I--’ Castiel regards the bottle for a minute then takes the glass. Dean breaks the seal and pours them each a healthy double shot.

‘Wanna toast or just get hammered?’ Dean asks, holding his glass in midair.

Castiel pauses for a second, then smiles. ‘To not fitting kinks.’

Dean raises his glass silently.

* * *

Three similarly generous doubles later and the question hardly startles Castiel at all. 

‘So was he always that big of an asshole or did it creep up on him slowly?’ Dean is leaning back on the couch, inspecting his fourth glass of whiskey with careful attention. Nellie has made her home beside his hip and is gently kneading his knee with a paw. 

Castiel snorts. ‘He was always like that. It just...seemed attractive. When we were younger.’

‘Yeah? When’d you hook up?’

‘I was...fifteen. He was...seventeen or eighteen.’ Castiel squints at the glass in his hand, shrugs, and downs the rest of it. ‘I was extremely stupid.’

Dean snorts. ‘C’mon, man...everyone’s dumb when they’re fifteen.’

Castiel huffs and pours himself another double. Leaning back in the chair, he has to concentrate for a minute before he can focus on Dean. The whiskey has made him feel overwarm and he thinks that the next time he gets up he should crack open a window. Dean, too, looks a little flushed. ‘What did _you_ do when you were fifteen?’

‘Uh...’ Dean looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, then snaps the fingers of his free hand. ‘Sarah Hardaker. Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’ Castiel shoves the feeling of cold disappointment down under half of his refilled glass, feeling the burn in the back of his throat that means he really should stop with this one. ‘I did not think that was possible.’

Dean snickers. ‘Well, it is if your younger brother walks in on you.’

‘Oh...oh, dear.’

‘Yeah -- not my best moment. She screamed and ran like hell and Sammy laughed for a week.’ Dean shrugs philosophically and downs the rest of his shot. 

‘Well. I am sure you did better the next time.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I did...’ Dean nods reminiscently and grins. ‘Her brother was a _way_ better time.’ He leans forward and refills his glass and adds as he leans back, ‘ _And_ I made damn sure Sammy was on a field trip.’

Castiel can feel the question tickling at the back of his throat and finishes his shot to keep from asking it. 

Dean starts scratching Nellie around the back of her neck. She purrs more loudly and stretches in approbation. ‘Got somethin’ you wanna say, Cas?’

‘No.’ Castiel takes another refill but lifts this one to the light, staring at the dark amber liquid and trying to think of _anything_ else to say.

‘Bi.’

‘What?’ Castiel has to blink several times to refocus him.

‘Least that’s what I hear they call guys like me.’ Dean shrugs, letting Nellie nudge his hand so he’s rubbing the base of her chin with his knuckles. ‘Never worried about it too much.’

‘Oh.’ 

‘C’mon...’ Dean gives Nellie a scrub over the ears that makes her shake her head and glare at him and pushes himself to his feet.

Castiel takes this as a signal that the evening is over and stands up himself. He has the usual feeling he remembers from past bouts of drinking: his feet feel heavy but he is unsure where his knees are and his head is far too light. 

‘Time for a bad movie, Cas...’ Dean picks up the bottle and gestures with it. ‘After you.’

* * *

This time, there is no question of Dean sitting on the floor. He sprawls on the bed beside Castiel much as Nellie does, with no seeming attention paid to his limbs. His knee brushes Castiel’s thigh and the sensation registers even through the buzz of whiskey.

Castiel had gotten them both large glasses of water and, despite Dean’s protests, refused to give him back his whiskey glass until he drank it. 

Under the influence of movement and the effort of selecting a movie and the water, Castiel’s brain is clearing a little and he wants to _talk._ He wants to tell Dean _everything_ : tell him about Zach, about the horrors of gym class.

He bites his tongue firmly and manages to nod when Dean discovers his stash of black and white sci-fi movies.

‘Dude...these are _sweet_...’ Dean is on his knees in front of the rows of movies, leaning forward slightly on one hand, and it is all Castiel can do to keep himself from staring. ‘Where’d you get them?’ Dean half-turns back to ask the question and Castiel yanks his eyes up quickly, focussing his gaze desperately on the stacks of sweaters on the shelf above the tapes.

‘Uh...Goodwill, mostly... A few yard sales. Some of them don’t work that well...’ Castiel slumps back against his pillows, acknowledging silently that the only way he will not stare at Dean’s ass is if he cannot see it.

‘Well...we’ll start with this one...’ Dean crab-walks on his knees to the VCR -- Castiel closes his eyes and considers prayer -- and figures out the connections and gets the tape rolling. He clambers back onto the bed and settles down beside Castiel, cradling his whiskey glass in his hands.

‘The problem with being fifteen,’ Castiel hears himself declaring, ‘is that you don’t _realize_ they’re assholes.’

Dean gives him a silent salute with the glass.

‘And if someone tells you, you don’t believe them.’

‘Did someone tell you?’

Castiel shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘’m sorry.’

‘There should...should be rules. Or signs. Or something.’ Castiel shakes his head and blinks at the television where a police sergeant is just discovering a small girl wandering in the desert, clutching a doll.

Dean makes a noise of companionable agreement and they both fall silent.

‘So...,’ Dean asks finally, ‘how many times’d you take him back?’

‘Two.’ Castiel takes a sip from his glass and is mildly surprised when it tastes of nothing.

‘Jesus.’

‘He wasn’t...he didn’t beat me or anything.’ Castiel glances sideways at Dean. ‘’m not stupid.’

‘Never thought you were.’

‘’s just...he’s so...he was... I thought he was so...’ Castiel pauses in frustration. ‘He’s two years older’n me... ‘n in school... He seemed so...’

‘Yeah.’ Dean nods. ‘I know.’

‘I thought he was...’ Castiel can hear the words coming out of his mouth and knows abstractly he should probably make himself shut up but also that there is no way he can stop this now. ‘He was the one with the bet, y’know.’

‘The bet...the one y’didn’t enjoy?’

Castiel nods soberly, probably over-soberly since he can feel his chin almost touch his chest. ‘That one. Didn’t like blowjobs for a long time after that.’

‘Jesus.’ Dean rolls his glass between his palms, frowning at it. ‘You sure I can’t go kick his ass?’

Castiel is still lost in his thought. ‘He seemed so...’ He sighs, impatient with his own inability to think of the right word. ‘He seemed so...clever. So smart -- smarter than me. Beautiful. He wanted to be...adored. And... and I wanted someone to adore.’ He grimaces and downs the rest of his glass, feeling the burn on the roof of his mouth this time. ‘And I was a fucking idiot. That helped.’

‘Hey,’ Dean joggles his shoulder companionably. ‘Lighten up a bit. You were fifteen. What the hell did you know?’

From anyone else but Dean, that would be a loaded phrase -- even an insult. From Dean it becomes...almost friendly. 

Castiel looks over at him. ‘I bet you never did anything as foolish.’

Dean snorts. ‘Seriously, man? You want me to go through _my_ back catalogue for you?’

‘You already told me.’

‘Not the half of it.’ Dean tilts his glass towards him in a mock-salute. ‘And most of it? You don’t wanna know.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re not that kinda guy.’ Dean’s smile is mocking and Castiel wants to rap him on the head or kiss him until he stops looking so fucking superior and knowing and -- and fucking gorgeous with it.

Instead, he bites the inside of his lip until it stings. ‘You think I am....sheltered.’

‘That’s not a bad thing--’

‘It is when people treat you like a fool because of it.’ Castiel pushes himself off the bed, ignoring whatever Dean is trying to say, and shuts the bathroom door firmly behind himself.

* * *

Cold water on the back of his neck helps but he can see in the mirror that he is hopelessly flushed, his pupils dilated and dark, his lower lip irritated where he has been biting at it.

_Try not to be a complete idiot,_ he counsels himself, running wet hands through his hair and letting cold drops run down the back of his neck. 

* * *

‘My dad was crazy.’

Castiel almost goes back into the bathroom. 

He hangs onto the doorknob instead, blinking at Dean. The younger man is sitting up against a stack of pillows at the head of the bed, gaze remarkably firm for the amount of whiskey he has consumed. The movie is still playing along on the TV but Nellie is the only one paying attention and she is kneading the comforter with a dreamy expression in her half-closed eyes.

‘What...what?’

‘My dad. I know you’ve been curious -- I’ve seen the look on your face.’ 

‘Dean, I didn’t--’

‘He was convinced demons were out to get us.’

‘You -- demons?’ Castiel lets go of the doorknob and sags back onto his side of the bed, bracing himself with one foot on the floor, staring at Dean. ‘Demons?’ He wonders for a moment how much liquor he has really consumed. His tolerance has always been fair to good but this...this seems to be suggesting he should watch his levels in the future.

‘Yeah.’ Dean’s hands make vague gestures in the hair, outlining a huge figure. ‘Horns, pitchforks, Hell -- you know the drill.’

Castiel runs a hand through his hair. ‘He was...uh...’

‘Delusional. Paranoid. Out of his fucking skull?’ Dean makes a dismissive gesture. ‘Whatever. I’ve heard it all. Yeah.’

‘That is why--’ This time, Castiel has the sense to bite the tip of his tongue hard.

‘We moved around all the time.’ Dean nods. ‘Yeah. And why Mom left with Sam.’

‘Why did you stay?’ The tip of his tongue is too sore to bite again and he is still drunk enough to let the question slip out anyway.

Dean shrugs, not seeming offended and Castiel finds himself wondering how much Dean had _really_ had to drink: he seems remarkably sober. ‘Couldn’t let Dad go nuts on his own -- they’d’ve locked him up. He wasn’t dangerous to anyone, didn’t try to hurt anyone -- not really. He just...wanted to keep people safe. Thought he was a one man army.’

‘I...see.’

Dean shakes his head. ‘No, y’don’t.’ He leans back against the pillows. ‘And now you’re worried you’ve got a nutcase on your hands.’

‘No.’ Castiel is sure of that at least. ‘You are not crazy.’

Dean snorts something that is like a laugh. ‘Tell it to the judge, man.’

‘You...are in trouble.’ This seems to answer most of the questions still remaining unasked and Castiel starts trying to prod his sodden memory into giving up the names of lawyers; he is sure he knows at least one or two. A few years previously -- there had been a woman whose manuscript he did research for -- she had worked for one of the many immigrant rights groups in the city. Perhaps she--

‘Not any more. Not since Dad died. When I was fifteen? Hell, yeah, I was in trouble.’ Dean reaches out and thumps Castiel’s shoulder companionably. Castiel sucks in a breath and nearly chokes. ‘Hey, breathe, man. No cops’re gonna come lookin’ for me, I promise. Haven’t turned a trick in _this_ city anyway.’

‘You...what?’

‘It wasn’t like Dad could hold down a regular job.’ Dean’s smile is still there but his eyes are watchful. ‘And if it’s that or no gas in the car...’ He shrugs. ‘Not a hard choice.’

Castiel opens his mouth, closes it again. 

‘I can take off any time you want.’ Now Dean’s eyes are beyond watchful: they are _wary_. He is balancing himself on the bed as though Castiel might make a spring for him.

‘Why would I want that?’

Dean shrugs, one-shouldered. ‘Not everyone wants a--’

‘You did it to help your father,’ Castiel says firmly, before Dean can say anything else.

‘And me.’

Castiel pauses. ‘You...enjoyed it?’

Dean hesitates, glances at the movie for a minute, then looks back at Castiel. ‘You do what you gotta do, right? It’s not...I didn’t...’ He stops, blows out a long breath, and scrubs a hand back through his hair. ‘I...tried not to think about it a lot.’

‘Did your father never--’ Castiel is asking question after question that should never be asked but he cannot stop himself.

‘Dad didn’t know.’

‘That crazy,’ Castiel says with an unexpected amount of bitterness before he realises he probably should have said nothing.

Dean shrugs again. ‘That obsessed. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Here -- in Boston?’

Dean nods. ‘I figured I owed it to him to...I don’t know...check out his last ideas? And he had shit squirrelled away all over the country. I’ve been cleaning out the boltholes.’

‘What was his idea about Boston?’

‘Uh -- some nasty something or other living in a church steeple, I think.’ Dean glances around the room and waves a hand vaguely. The wariness has left his eyes, but the watchfulness has not. ‘I’ve got his notes somewhere.’

‘That is a Lovecraft story,’ Castiel says without really meaning to.

‘A...what?’

‘The creature in the church steeple. It is a story by...and there was another story that... It is not really important. Perhaps your father read the story at some point and made it....er...’ Castiel waves a hand, trying to suggest ‘part of his paranoid delusion’ without saying it.

Dean cocks his head, considering it. ‘Probably, yeah.’

There is a moment of silence that stretches into two, then five, then ten. On the television screen -- which Nellie is still watching -- a huge ant carcase is in the middle of a dust-storm.

‘Dean, I...’ Castiel shifts position slightly, easing his hips more fully onto the bed. ‘I...’

‘Don’t. Okay? Just -- forget it. Forget I said it.’ Dean shakes his head and moves to turn back to the television.

‘No.’ Before he can think, Castiel has reached out and grabbed Dean’s wrist, forcing the younger man to look at him. ‘I will not forget. I forget...very rarely, in any case. And...I am...I...I am so _sorry,_ Dean.’ 

It is inadequate.

Anything he could say would be inadequate.

What could _possibly_ be adequate?

His brain is too far gone on whiskey, most of his vocabulary has floated away, and he cannot _think._

None of this is made any better when Dean’s fingers wrap around his wrist and tug him back onto the bed. 

He is so distracted by the vocabulary issue that he goes along without considering what the end result will be -- which means when he finds himself comfortably arranged along Dean’s right side, Dean’s arm around his shoulders, he loses his breath again. ‘I...Dean?’

He raises his head and finds Dean looking at him with something that, had they known each other longer than a grand total of three-going-on-four days, might be affection.

‘Me, too, Cas.’ Dean’s fingers ruffle lightly through his hair and land on Castiel’s shoulders. ‘Blowjobs shouldn’t be bets.’

‘I did win,’ Castiel feels constrained to point out.

‘But you hated it.’

‘But you--’

‘Did it for ten bucks a pop.’ There is astringency in Dean’s tone, but not anger. ‘Yeah, I know. But at least I got to choose the who and the when. Sometimes the where if it was really my night.’

‘Dean--’ Castiel closes his eyes and buries his face against the back of his own hand. The only problem with this strategy is that his hand is spread over the curve of Dean’s ribs and he can smell the man’s skin through his shirt: deodorant, soap, and a sweet warm tang that Castiel wants to lick.

‘Hey, it’s okay. I don’t--’

‘It is _not_ okay.’ Castiel raises his head again, doing his best to glare. ‘If...if you are not okay with Zach betting on me, then I am not okay with -- with what your father was too...insane to keep you from doing!’

Dean looks at him for a long minute and, just as Castiel is absolutely sure his expression is going to change to the closed-down, shut-out anger that he never wants to see again, Dean looks away, then twists and snaps off the bedside light. 

‘It was my choice, Cas.’

‘I understand. But...’ Castiel drops his forehead on his knuckles again. ‘I do not...like to think of you...being hurt.’

‘Hurt? Hey, I didn’t do _that_ sort of trick.’

‘No, I mean...I...’ Castiel closes his eyes. He is sliding rapidly towards sleep whether or not he wants to and he cannot _think_ of the words he wants. 

The whiskey has successfully numbed the wired feeling that almost always results from Zach’s visits but it has also completely taken away his ability to cope with this conversation and he cannot imagine ever _not_ regretting that. He wants to reach out and wrap his arms around Dean's shoulders, pull the man close in against him, make stupid promises in his ear, fall asleep curled up on his shoulder -- but he can still feel the tension in Dean's muscles. The man is poised to run if he has to.

‘Hey. S’okay.’ 

There are warm fingers under his chin and Dean is tipping his head up just enough to brush dry, slightly rough lips over his. 

Castiel is entirely sure he stops breathing.

‘You can tell me all about it in the morning.’

* * *

In the morning -- and Castiel feels he may have to become used to this -- Dean is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The HP Lovecraft story referenced here is _[The Haunter of the Dark](http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/hd.asp)_ , dedicated to Robert Bloch. Bloch had written an earlier story, dedicated to Lovecraft, called "The Shambler from the Stars"; 'Haunter" was Lovecraft's respose. Bloch later wrote a third story "The Shadow from the Steeple"; I can't find either of the Bloch pieces online, or I'd share links here.
> 
> The movie is _[Them!](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Them!)_ and if you haven't seen it, _why_ are you wasting time reading my fic instead of darting off to find it?! Go! Go! This fic will still be here when you get back!


End file.
